


The Storyteller

by Em_313



Series: The Storyteller (Young Jack) [1]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Backstory, Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Fluff, Gen, Jack Kelly Backstory, Origin Story, Teen just to be safe, Tragedy, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-10 13:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15292614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Em_313/pseuds/Em_313
Summary: Jack always tells his brothers he ain't got no folks nowhere. But once upon a time, he had a mother, a father, and two sisters who adored him. He had a family.Follows Jack ages 5-15





	1. Chapter 1

Irish pronunciations: Evelyn: Ave-Leen

Ciara: Key-ra Aoife: Eee-fa

Glendalough: Glenn-da-Lock

A stóirín: Ah-store-reen (my little treasure)

 

 

Evelyn Kelly was a phenomenal storyteller. Jack, Ciara, and baby Molly followed their mother around day after day while she kneaded bread or scrubbed floors or pulled weeds, begging for legends of ancient kings and queens with lilting Gaelic names that felt like harp music over their tongues. They sighed at the fate of the Children of Lir and cheered at the banishment of the evil Queen Aoife. The kids knew leprechauns were tricksters, and they shivered with just the right amount of fear when they heard stories of changelings who snatched away children and left cursed fairies in their place.

They heard about faithful Saint Patrick who used shamrocks to illustrate the Trinity, fed hungry sailors, and drove all the snakes to the sea. There was compassionate Brigid, friend of women and the poor, and courageous Brendan the Navigator. Evelyn was particularly fond of nature-loving Kevin of Glendalough, whose ancient towers she’d seen from her childhood home in the Wicklow mountains. Jack and Ciara grew up reverently superstitious about fairies and prayer.

In quieter moments, as Evelyn sewed or fed Molly or braided Ciara’s thick, dark hair, her children asked for the story of their family. Evelyn was a miracle baby, the feisty youngest daughter of a large sheep farming family in Glendalough. Years before she was born, her parents, four brothers, and a sister had survived the Great Hunger, only by Irish luck and the Grace of God. She had no dowry and no interest in the men of Glendalough, anyways, so at 17 she boarded a ship for America to become a maid.

“But Mama,” Ciara would always interrupt. “Didn’t you miss Ireland? What was Ireland like?”

“Green.” Evelyn would say. Her face would crack into a huge smile. “Clean and green and pretty.” It’d been so long since she’d been able to see for miles.

For three years, she lived with a wealthy family who had so much money they had heaters in every room, fancy parlor furniture from England, and parties almost every weekend. For three years, she told herself the old stories and prayers as she scrubbed and polished, cooked and carried for fourteen, fifteen, sixteen hours a day. “Good, hard, honest work.” She always called it, though most didn’t see it that way. She was thankful to not have to work in a factory.

Then she met Pat Kelly, a construction worker who’d immigrated from Dublin as a little boy. She wasn’t looking for anyone. Really, she wasn’t. But his green eyes reminded her of the rich, soft grass of the Wicklow mountains. They were married within the year.

Here in her story, Evelyn would pause. “Hmmm,” She’d say. “I wonder what happened after that.”

“Me!” Jack would say. “You had me, Jack!” Evelyn would kiss his head, then look quizzically around their apartment.

“Then what?”

“Me!” Ciara would jump up. “And then Molly.”

Evelyn would nod and kiss the girls. Then she’d stand up from her chair to do something else.

“No!” Jack would almost always complain. “Ma, that’s not the end of the story.”

Evelyn would smile. “The rest of our family’s story is up to you and your sisters, a stóirín.”

Every once in a while, Evelyn could turn her spoon or her shovel into a cross, or a sword, or a snake, pausing her work to punctuate the story with grand gestures and sparkling blue eyes. Her storytelling voice was different from her usual sharp, tired voice she used to tell Jack to sit up straight, or remind Ciara to be gentle with the baby, or to fuss over money with her husband. It was warm and smooth, like starlight and church music.

Decades later, if he focused hard enough, Jack could hear the Hail Mary, a rowdy Irish pub song, and the names of his long-gone aunts, uncles, and grandparents in his mother’s storytelling voice.


	2. Chapter 2

March 1888 

Jack, who was almost 6, had his father’s green eyes, his mother’s round face, and his baby sister’s cold. He sat at the window, sniffling, with his chin resting on his knees. The weather wasn’t exactly warm yet, but he knew the long, dark winter was melting from the air. It was almost Molly’s first birthday, then his birthday, then Ciara’s. He and Ciara were watching the busy streets, waiting, like they always did, for their father to come home. 

Ciara leapt up when the door opened, threw her arms around Pat’s waist, and climbed him like a tree. She laid her head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent of dirt, smoke, and exhaustion. 

Pat was slender, but tall and strong from a lifetime of hauling brick and stone. To the kids he may have well have been a fairytale giant. He kissed Ciara’s cheek, then sighed and put her down. “I carried bricks all day, darlin’, don’t need to carry a big girl like you.”

Jack hugged him around the knees and Pat put a heavy, calloused hand on his head. “Hullo, lad.” 

Evelyn was at the kitchen table with Molly sitting in her lap, fussing. Pat leaned over his wife’s shoulder and grabbed the baby’s chubby fist. “A mhuirnin (uh WER-neen, darling or sweetie), what’s all this about?” He sat down next to them. 

“I told ya she was gettin’ sick.” Evelyn said, frowning. “She and Jack both been coughin’ all day long.” She wiped Molly’s nose with her sleeve, then plopped the baby into Pat’s lap and stood up to finish dinner. 

Pat used his fingers to fluff Molly’s soft strawberry blonde hair so it stood up in all directions like flames. “Ya got a fire on ya head, my unlucky gal.” This usually made Molly smile, but she just looked up at him with huge, teary eyes and whimpered. 

“I told ya, Pat.” Evelyn said. “I told ya all them little ones downstairs been sick.” 

This was the beginning of an argument the two of them had every couple of months. 

Country girl Evelyn had been spoiled by her room and board when she worked as a maid, and never quite got used to the noise and the mess of living in a crowded apartment complex. The buildings were too close together; sometimes she felt restless, at best, and unsafe at worst. 

But Pat had been raised in the slums, where his family of seven was packed into a single windowless room. The hundreds of immigrants who lived in his building were more often than not jobless, angry, filthy, and sick. To Patrick, even the amount of sunlight and fresh air in their narrow one-bedroom apartment felt luxurious. 

“Ya worry too much.” Pat said. He wrapped one hand around Molly, and used the other to prop his head up on his fist. He could feel Molly’s tiny ribs under his hands as her chest sucked in and out with every breath she took. 

“The ceiling still leakin’ in the corner.” Evelyn muttered, pointing to a water stained spot above Jack and Ciara’s bed. “No wonder theys got colds.” 

She slammed their plates on the table one at a time: clang, clang, clang, clang. The noise made Molly cry harder, which made her choke and cough. Evelyn scooped her up and rubbed her back. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep shaky breath to calm herself. “Let’s eat.” 

Jack’s father, who laid bricks from dawn to dinnertime six days a week, was a creature of habit. Every night he ate dinner, drank a glass of whiskey, then held Jack on one knee and Ciara on the other while they prayed “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep”. Then he went straight to bed. In the summertime, he was asleep before the sun went down.   
...

 

Jack couldn’t sleep. Molly had finally settled down, and Ciara laid on her stomach beside him, breathing deeply. But Jack laid flat on his back in the bed he and his sister shared, studying the shape of the water stain in the corner and listening to his mother do the dishes. His throat really hurt now and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. 

He got up and padded across the shadowy room. “Ma?” 

“Go to bed, Jack.” Evelyn said. Her tired eyes didn’t even look up from the pan of water. “It’s late.” 

He pressed himself into her side and mumbled something about not being able to sleep. 

Evelyn dried the last plate, then dried her hands and wrapped her arm around him. “Ya not feeling so well, either, are ya?” 

“Can ya tell me a story?” He said. He sniffled and hoped he looked so pitiful she had to say yes. “Please?” 

Evelyn yawned, then sat down in a chair and pulled Jack into her lap. “A short one.” She said. “Now, years ago, a lad, a bit older than you, by the name of Mikey O’Brien was walkin’ through a forest when he almost stepped on a wrinkled little man sittin’ on a rock, drinkin’ a pint…” This was one of his favorite legends with a wonderfully mischievous leprechaun and a little boy stupid enough to trust him.   
.  
Years later, once he’d become the strong, smart-mouthed Jack Kelly who would do anything to look out for his newsie brothers---steal food, break out of juvie, lead strikes, and try to sell papes in single-digit weather when he had the Christmas plague---Jack told his girlfriend he didn’t remember the last time he had someone fuss over him. 

But that was a lie. Every minute of that endless night in their damp, dim apartment remained vivid and haunting. 

His mother’s storytelling voice sounded tired as silly leprechaun antics made him forget about sore throats and creepy shadows. 

Then Molly awoke with a piercing cry as soon as he got back in bed. 

He pretended to be asleep, laying as stiff as he could, as he heard Molly’s breathing grow more and more rapid and wheezy. Evelyn, with Molly on her shoulder, paced back and forth between the front door and the stove a hundred times. Inhale then coughing and gasping, Evelyn’s gentle murmuring and patting her back. A hundred times. 

Jack would swear he didn’t sleep at all that night, but he must have, because his next memory was at sunrise. His parents sat at the kitchen table, Molly leaning listlessly against Pat’s chest. From his bed, in the soft orange light, Jack could see his baby sister’s lips were grey. Her round face shone with sweat. Evelyn was facing away from him. Her dark hair was in a sloppy bun, and her shoulders stooped in exhaustion. Was she crying? He couldn’t tell. He’d never seen either of his parents cry before. 

His father should’ve been leaving for work by now, right? He usually left around sunrise, didn’t he? Ciara was still sleeping. Jack was perfectly still. He needed to not bother his parents so they could help Molly.   
.

Ciara shook him awake. 

“Jack!” She was just inches away from him, with her huge blue eyes and her hot breath on his face. Sunlight flooded the apartment. “Jack, Jack. Somethin’ the mattah with Molly.” 

His parents were sitting at the table. Why was his father still home? Shouldn’t he be at work? He and Ciara leapt up. 

Evelyn was holding Molly. Jack thought her hair looked even redder against her pale face. She was very very still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! I'm new to this site (somehow) not new to Newsies love or fanfic. Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday fluff as a breather from the sadness :)

**May 1889**

Ciara was born just a few hours before the opening of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Pat held her close as he stood at the open window to watch the celebration. “All them people and canons and music is for you, a chroí (uh Kree, my heart).“ he said. “A new world wonder.“

Ciara never learned to walk. She just hopped up one day and ran. Around her first birthday, she jumped from constant laughter to constant chattering. She was speaking in sentences before Jack was.

By time she was four and Jack was five, every kid on the block knew the little Irish girl with dark braids and huge blue eyes who raced boys twice her size and sometimes even won. Ciara could’ve sweet talked a brick wall into a game of jump rope or another piece of candy. Her father called her firecracker. Her mother called her unladylike. Jack, a year and a week older, taught her to play marbles and held onto her legs to keep her from falling when she tried to use the fire escape ladder as monkey bars. When she tripped out a cartwheel and had to get stitches, he cried and held her hand.

 

All the women of the building who gossiped about their children while they hung laundry liked to say Jack and Ciara were the sun and the moon: polar opposites and best friends. While she lived life at 100 miles an hour and often upside down, Jack preferred to lay on the fire escape and watch the stars, or the clouds, or the people passing by. By time he’d worked up the courage to break away from Evelyn’s side, she was friends with half the neighborhood.

They both loved their mother’s stories, their father’s roughhousing, and fighting over who got to hold Molly. She could pull him into a pick-up baseball game. He’d pull her out of traffic.

 

The week Jack turned 7 and Ciara turned 6, at the end of May, it was already over 80 degrees.

Evelyn opened all the windows as she set to making their birthday dinner. Shouts and laughter rose from the streets below where the neighborhood kids played, and Evelyn leaned out the window to watch. Ciara was jumping rope with some older girls, her braid thumping rhymically against her back as she sang. Jack knelt in the shade of the building across the street, coaching the youngest of the bunch through a game of marbles. She muttered a quick prayer of thanks for the breeze. It’d be a long summer.

As she retreated back into the heat of the kitchen, Evelyn glanced around for her redheaded shadow. Then she froze and took a deep, shaky breath. It’d been over a year and loss still knocked the wind out of her. Molly would be 2 ½ now, which was hard to imagine. She was frozen in time, forever a freckled, smiley baby crawling around her feet. Jack and Ciara had stopped asking when she was coming back. Now her name felt taboo. Evelyn didn’t know which one was worse.

 

Ciara brought flowers to her own birthday party, skipping through the front door with a fistful of dandelions she’d snatched from the alleyway.

“Your hair is an absolute mess, gal.” Evelyn said, shaking her head. Ciara squirmed as her mother pushed stray curls from her flushed face.

“Cause she was standing on her head again.” Jack said. His pockets jangled with the marbles he’d collected.

Pat was right behind them, trudging up the stairs, dirty and dripping with sweat. Evelyn gave him a kiss and a glass of water. He chugged it, then smiled down at Jack and Ciara. “What’s all this nonsense about some birthdays?”

Jack was sitting on the floor, sorting his marbles, not listening as Ciara bounced around telling Pat what he already knew: Jack had turned 7 three days before, and she would be 6 in three more days. On their actual birthdays, their father would hold them upside down and gently bump their heads against the floor--one bump for every year plus one for good luck. Pat sunk into a chair as Ciara kept talking and singing. 

“Ciara Kelly, be quiet and come act like a lady.” Evelyn said sharply. She gave Pat’s shoulder a squeeze. The kids got the message and climbed into their chairs to sit as politely as they could. They requested shepherd’s pie and gooey strawberry cake every year. Food was one of the things they always agreed on.

Jack and Ciara held hands under the table as their parents recited their favorite birthday blessing. They said it every year:

_May you always have a sunbeam to warm you_

_A moonbeam to charm you_

_A sheltering angel so nothing can harm you_

_Laughter to cheer you_

_Faithful friends near you_

_And when you pray, Heaven to hear you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this one! I thought we all deserved some fluff after watching Molly stop breathing in the last chapter.   
> Thanks for reviewing <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Santa never brought rich kids in nice big houses no plague either.”
> 
> (AKA all I know how to write is sadness and sickfics)

**_Late 1889-early 1890_ **

All of the children in the apartment hoped that someone had gotten a sled for Christmas.   _None_ of them did.  

Eight or ten of the kids, the tall, nurturing big girls down to 5-year-olds with mittens around their necks, gathered in the alley the day after Christmas to build a snow fort. They stood in a circle and complained that Santa always seemed to bring the rich kids more.

Ciara was the one who noticed key players, 9-year-old twins who lived above them, missing. “Ain’t  Charlie and Annie coming out?”

“I knocked on the door. They both gots the flu.” One of the kids said.

“My mother has a cough.”

“So does my big sister.”

“Opie’s gone, too. Is he sick?”

“I heard old Mr. B upstairs is dying.” That was from Maggie, who was the oldest and the smartest, so she would know everything.

Their breaths froze in the air in front of them. Jack was quiet. A decade later, he’d remember this conversation and roll his eyes at his brothers. “Santa never brought rich kids in nice big houses no plague either.”

"Well?" One of the littest boys said impatiently. "Let's go!" 

The kids started their snow fort. 

 

A couple days later, it was Jack’s turn to report to the crowd that Ciara had woken up sore and feverish. That night, Pat came home from work and crawled into bed. For two weeks.

It wasn’t really good playing outside weather, if they were being honest. The snow was too wet and dirty to pack into balls and launch at each other. Their snowballs mostly sunk in midair, collapsing into the street with a cold, sad _splat_. The ground was icy and slick, and the littlest kids whined.

But the remaining healthy kids in the building gathered in the alley day after day. Being outside was better than being inside. Inside was suffocating with sickness and anxiety. Jack tried not to think of Ciara and his father and his mother taking care of them as he pelted wet snowballs at the side of an old building, polka dotting the red brick.

He and Ciara shared a bed, so Jack wasn’t surprised, just miserable, when he woke up on New Years with a blinding headache.

 

Jack and his father emerged from their feverish haze about a week later. But Ciara wasn’t getting better, and neither was Evelyn, flattened by weeks of caregiving.

Not many of the neighbor kids played outside for a week or two—too many people sick or wrapped up in a heavy grey cloud, grieving.  Pat returned to long, hard hours of bricklaying. Jack did his best to make sure Ciara and his mother, both weak and wheezing, had what they needed.  

He spent most of that long, grey January drawing on scraps of newspaper. He laid on his stomach near the heater, sketching whatever he could see—the table and chairs, the curves of the big stove, buildings and snow, carts and horses outside his window. He showed his drawings to his family, and his parents gave passing nods. Ciara would lift her head from the pillow and smile. He drew her more snowflakes and horses.

.

Ciara died almost exactly how Molly had not quite two years before.

She’d been coughing for weeks, but one night her breaths grew rapid and shallow. She sat straight up in bed, desperately trying to suck in air.  No one slept.

Breathing took the energy of mountain climbing, and her mouth, fingers, and toes turned blue. It wore her out, until, at sunrise, her breathing got slower and slower.

Then it stopped.

Jack kissed her cheek.

Evelyn was too sick for a proper goodbye. She didn’t wake up the next day.

The suddenness always haunted Jack.  How his mother and sisters—all three strong, sparkling, smiling—could just be _gone_.

 

Jack pretended to be asleep at their double funeral.  He closed his eyes and slouched low in the pew next to his thin, shaking father. His jacket was a little too big and he pulled it up around his face. Jack was hoping maybe, just maybe, Ciara and his mother would be there when he woke up.

 

Pat didn’t like him out on the streets alone, and Jack hated being trapped in their apartment. Everything was too still.  Too quiet. Even worse was trying to play in the alley without Ciara’s loud laugh and wild imagination.

His mother’s friends gave him sad smiles and pennies for odd jobs. They brought meals and taught them to cook well enough to keep from starving. Jack drew and drew and redrew pictures of every piece of furniture they owned.

He made it to school once or twice a week.  He was the only one who didn’t know how to read, except for a little girl still young enough to chew on her knuckles. Math was okay. He was pretty good at math. Jack sat perfectly still and quiet near a boy he knew from the neighborhood, legs aching on the hard seats.  The corner of his slate was filled with drawings of eyes and trees and dogs. He usually erased them before he got caught, but sometimes the teacher’s ruler would crack down on the corner of his desk.

“Boy, stop dawdling!” His teacher had a long nose and wore her blonde hair in high, severe bun. She rarely smiled. Jack thought she looked like an owl.

As the weather warmed up, he picked up a shift here and there shining shoes, gravel digging into his legs as he knelt on boxes or the sidewalk.  The other boys were mostly older, rougher, with ragged clothes and cigars hanging from their lips, and they hardly talked to him. 

Shoe shining was good for people watching, or sometimes he tried to tell himself the old Irish legends. Mostly he stared into shiny, expensive shoes and went through the motions. The polish turned his hands grey and brown. The busier they could stay, the less they had to think.

 

Jack turned 8 at the end of May, without strawberry cake, without his mother’s vibrant stories about him and Ciara as babies, without Ciara’s hand in his as they made their wishes for another year.  A black, airless pit that settled somewhere under Jack’s rib cage. On his birthday, Pat gave him fresh pencils and a small pad of paper to draw with. He was almost too tall to crawl into his father’s lap, but he did it anyways.  Pat kissed his hair. They didn’t talk about it. They couldn’t talk about it.

“Love ya, lad.” Pat said quietly.

“Love you, too.” Jack said. He was thinking of what he could draw with his new paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, we all know Jack is an orphan, so we know it's gonna be sad, right? Still, I'm sorry for the feels. 
> 
> I like playing with quiet, shy Jack and thinking about his transformation into the protective leader we see in the show. Jeremy has talked a lot about being a shy, serious kid and I wanted to play with that in how I wrote little Jack. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRv_bg_Jm6A If you haven't seen this Santa Fe performance and one of Jer's sweetest monologues GO WATCH IT RIGHT NOW 
> 
> Also, FYI, I'll be updating this one often because I already have almost the whole thing done and posted somewhere else. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Jack became a newsie!!

**July 1893**

“What’re you doin’ today?” Pat asked. He sat at the kitchen table, drinking steaming black coffee in long, slow sips.

Jack slumped in the chair across from him, barely awake.  The sun was just coming up. “I dunno. Washin’ windows for Miss Gracie this morning.” His dark hair stuck up in all directions. Jack was 11 now, baby fat beginning to morph into broad shoulders _._

“Use that money to go to the bakery, would ya? And see what’s at the market. Get whatever ya want. We just about outta everything.”

Jack yawned and nodded.  His father finished off his coffee, then sighed and stood up from the table. “Be good, lad.” He said, and gently squeezed Jack’s shoulder as he walked by. He shut the door. 

Three years later, the hole Evelyn and Ciara had left was still massive.  Jack and Pat hadn’t patched it, could never fill it, but they danced around the gaping silence, trying desperately not to sink into it.  

They didn’t live on the fourth floor of the old brick apartment anymore.  Jack didn’t know it when he was little, but his parents had spent years praying every single month that their rent wouldn’t budge even a penny. Evelyn took in seamstress work for extra cash. Once she was gone, so was that income.  Pat and Jack moved about six months after they’d lost them.

Jack missed the long, narrow room with the big window and the curves of the big black stove. He missed sitting with Ciara on the fire escape, their legs dangling dangerously over the edge, and he even missed the leaking ceiling in the corner above their bed.  This new place--could he still call it _new_ if they’d lived there nearly 3 years?--was tighter and smaller, but it wasn’t horrible.  

Somehow, though, there weren’t any kids his age on the whole block.  A few families on their floor had babies, and there was a pack of older boys, maybe 15 or 16, who’d begun working like the men as soon as they were tall enough to lie about their age.

Jack could usually count on one hand the number of times a month he felt like going to school. Other than that, he didn’t know any other 11-year-old boys. The endless warm days of winning at marbles, listening to Ciara’s jump rope chants, and throwing snowballs in the alley behind their old building felt far away.  

How could something feel like a million years ago when he’d only been alive for eleven?

Jack yawned again into his fist. He’d been up too late drawing. All week, he’d been trying to capture the sliver of skyline he could see through the kitchen window. It wasn’t perfect yet.  He slowly got dressed and attempted to comb down his hair, then grabbed an apple for breakfast. His father was right; they really needed to get groceries.

The day was already sweltering when he stepped outside.  He ate his apple as he weaved in and out of traffic on his way to their old apartment.  It was six blocks South and four and a half blocks East. He could do it in his sleep.

Miss Gracie’s little girl, Alice, opened the door with a huge toothless smile before Jack could even knock.  Miss Gracie and his mother had been friends because they were pregnant together. Alice was six, just a couple weeks younger than Molly.  How old Molly should’ve been.

“Hey, Alice.” Jack said.  The little girl waved.

Miss Gracie was kneading bread, her hands sticky with dough, but she nodded her hello. “You know where the rags are.” She said. “Get ya self a drink of water, too. Hot as blazes out there.”

Jack got right to work.  He and Miss Gracie both knew that she was capable of washing her own windows. But every Thursday for the past two years she’d given Jack a nickel to do it, and it wasn’t a tradition either of them wanted to break.

He did the insides first, then the outsides.  As he stood on the fire escape, stretching to reach every corner, he listened to the streets below.  Kids shouted, carts rumbled over the rough streets, dogs barked. Heat made everybody angry. There was construction happening nearby, and like a little kid, he wondered if it could be his father.   

The windows shone when he was done. “Thank you, Jack.” Miss Gracie said. “You always do good work.”

Jack smiled shyly and stuck his hands in his pockets.  “Thanks, ma’am.” She insisted he have a glass of water before he left, and gave him a cookie with his nickel.

On his way out, as he stomped down five flights of metal stairs, Jack glanced at the door of their old apartment. He didn’t know who lived in it now.

 

Jack decided to take the long way to the market. He wasn’t ready to be stuck in the apartment alone yet, and the skyline was only good to draw at night.   As he turned a corner, he saw a sunburnt boy waving a newspaper.

“Extra! Extra!” the kid yelled. “Thief still at large!” He looked at Jack. “Hey, kid, wanna pape?” The boy held out the paper to Jack, and wiped the sweat from his face with his other hand.

Jack paused.  This kid was his age, maybe a year older. He was tall and lanky, all bony elbows and skinned knees.  Why did he look so familiar?

The kid let his arm drop to his side as he stared at Jack, his brow furrowed.  “Do ya live over here?”

“Used to.” Jack said. The boy nodded slowly.

“You ever go to school 27?”

“Wait…” Jack said. “Did you? ‘Bout 2 years ago?”

“Yeah, yeah! You’re...Jake, right?”

“Jack.” he said. “Jack Kelly.”

The boy stuck out his hand. “Name’s Anthony, but everyone calls me Racetrack.  I was the one who was always sleepin’”

Jack grinned and shook his sweaty hand.  “I, uh, don’t have enough for a pape.”

“No worries.” Race said. “I’ll sell plenty without ya.  So ya still go to school 27?”

“Nah. Got bettah things to do.”

“Me too.”  He adjusted the canvas sack of papes on his shoulder.  “What ya up to?”

Jack shrugged. It really was too hot to be just wandering around.  

Race turned from him to get the attention of a passing crowd. “Priceless jewels gone! Homes at risk! Get ya papes!”

A man in a suit more expensive than Jack’s apartment stopped and handed Race a few coins. Jack squinted at the headline, and there wasn’t a thing about jewelry. Far as he could tell, the thief was an ametuer, slipping odds and ends from store shelves and unattended carriages.  

“Did ya make that up?” Jack asked as soon as the man turned away.

Racetrack smiled. “Just made it bettah.” He said. “Gotta sell out somehow.”

Then Jack knew what to do with his endless summer. “How’d ya get this job?”

 

Early the next morning, Jack left the apartment as soon as his father did, clutching Miss Gracie’s nickels in his pocket. Race told him he could get papes two for a penny at the distribution center uptown.

When Jack arrived, a dozen boys were standing around, leaning against the building and empty wagons.  Race smiled when he saw him. “‘ey, fellas, this is the new kid I was talkin’ bout.”

All eyes turned towards him and Jack’s stomach froze. “Um, hi.” He said quietly.

Unlike the rough, intimidating shoe-shine boys Jack remembered, these boys just looked tired. They introduced themselves one by one with a sleepy wave or a curt nod. Most of them were a few years older, but a couple were about his age. Race was 11, of course.

There was Mush, who said he was almost 12, but was so beefy and broad he could’ve passed for 14 or 15.  

Tommy was short, wiry, and only 10, but so quick and firey it more than made up for his size. “I’s Italian.” he explained, often, loudly. “Raised by them Long Island women, ya know?”

The circulation bell clanged and the distribution window flew open. The boys leapt up to buy their papes and Jack got in line behind Race.  

“Hey, kid," One of the oldest boys said to Jack. "let me give you a hand.”  He was about sixteen, with long limbs like vines and kind, gentle blue eyes.

They called him Tugboat, but Jack thought they should have called him Skyscraper. Tugboat knelt down next to Jack and showed him how to fold his papes with the headline on top and helped him stuff them into his bag. 

"Here, bud.” Tugboat stood up and held the bag out to Jack, who slung it over his shoulder. “How’s that feel?” It was heavier than Jack expected, but he didn’t say anything.

“C’mon.” Race said to Jack. “We’s partners for today.”

 

Jack fell into a chair almost as soon as he got home that night. He was sticky with sweat. His shoulders hurt from the heavy bag, and his face was hot with sunburn. And he’d loved every second of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. If you haven't caught clips of Jeremy's show with his wife from last night, go treat yourself. They're beyond sweet.  
> 2\. Are numbered schools a thing anywhere else? I live in a big city in the Midwest, and teach at a school just called "School 27".  
> 3\. "Tugboat" is a nod to my buddy Drew, who's 6-foot-7, compassionate and charming, and has a great nickname to steal for fics ;) 
> 
> Thanks for all the love!! I'm glad some of you are as invested in these characters as I am. ~Em


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack looks for a way to cheer up his dad.

**September 1893**

Tugboat didn’t need to stand on anything to get the boys’ attention in a crowd. He whistled and they all circled up on a corner near the distribution center. “Every one of ya fellas sold out today!” He shouted. Someone echoed, “Hell yeah!”

“Hell yeah, great work!” Tugboat said. He clapped his hands once. “Hit the road. Come with me if ya needs some supper.” 

The boys were grinning as they scattered in all directions. Their pockets were heavy with coins, and for once their day was done before sunset. 

“I’m gonna get me a penny candy.” Race said. He clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Wanna come?”

Jack smiled. “Of course.”  Tommy and Finch ran to catch up with them. 

The bell on the door jangled loudly as the boys paraded into the five-and-dime store like a pack of puppies. The four of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the counter, studying the big glass jars of stick candy. 

“Should I get peppermint or lemon?” 

“Peppermint is only for Christmas. Do they have licorice?”

“Licorice? Yuck! Here’s root beer and cinnamon ones.”

“Two for a nickel. Should we each get two?”

“Ooh, I want two cinnamon!”

The grey-haired shopkeeper glared at them over his glasses. Jack and Finch tried to lower their voices. The other two didn’t. 

“May I help you boys?” He asked. He probably wondered from their beat up shoes and sweaty newsboy caps if they could afford to buy anything.

They pointed at the candy they wanted and proudly handed over their hard earned nickels. Jack got a cinnamon candy for himself and a lemon one for his father. It was his favorite. Maybe it’d cheer him up. 

Their mouths and fingers grew sticky as the boys sucked their candies down to sharp, brittle points and walked aimlessly around the city.  Tommy did sloppy cartwheels in the grass, which made the others laugh. Finch was feeling generous with his first ever paycheck and bought them a bag of peanuts to share. The boys split the salty shells with their teeth, then took turns trying to spit them as far as they could.  

“Dang! look!” Race said, pointing. “I hit that squirrel! Scared it away.” 

“Did not!” Tommy said.  Jack chomped on the last handful of nuts and threw the shells at a tree. 

They scattered shortly before sunset. Finch lived with his oldest sister, and the other two lived in the lodge. Jack had a long walk home, but he didn’t mind it. He felt his pocket and hoped his father’s candy wouldn’t melt before he got there. 

 

A man he’d never seen before was hovering at Jack’s door when he got home. 

“Are ya Pat Kelly’s boy?” The man asked. He twisted a blue bandanna around in his calloused, dirty hands. 

Jack took a step backwards. “Jack.” He said. 

“Ya father’s had an accident, kid.  You gotta come with me.” 

He froze. “What? No. Who are you? Where’s my dad?” 

“I been trying to find ya, kid.” The man said. “I work with ya old man. He told me y’all live here. He fell...we was working on a wall and he fell. He hit his head real bad.” 

Jack’s mouth went dry. The man took a step towards him.  “My name’s Walt. Couple of us took ya dad to my place. He started asking for ya as soon as he came to.” 

Inside his pocket, Jack felt for his dad’s candy and snapped it in half.  He was shaking as he silently followed Walt out of their building and through the streets. They ended up in a narrow townhouse on the north end of the neighborhood. 

 

Pat was laying on a couch. His eyes were closed, and he took short, heavy breaths. As Jack got closer, he saw that his father’s auburn hair was matted with blood.  

“ _ Papa _ ?” Jack said. He couldn’t breathe. 

Pat opened his eyes and reached for Jack’s hand. “Hey, lad.” He said quietly. His eyes looked funny, like he couldn’t quite focus them.  

“What happened?”

Pat grunted. “Messed up...my shoulder.”

Walt stood behind Jack. “We were up on a ladder. He lost his balance and fell backwards.” he said. “Knocked him right out for a while. Another fella and I managed to carry him here. Cleaned him up best I could.  My wife ain’t back yet, but she’ll know what to do.” 

Jack nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat. 

“Can’t afford...doctor.” Pat said. Then he squeezed Jack’s hand and swore as a dizzy spell took over him. 

Jack felt at the coins in his pockets and wondered how much a house call would cost. “Ya need a doctor.” He told his father. “I’ll go get our stash from home, and I got paid today. I made a lot today. I’ll go fetch us somebody.” 

“No.” Pat said. “No. Stay here...We’ll go home soon.”

“Stay as long as ya need.” Walt said. “Do ya need anything? Jack, are ya hungry?” 

Jack shook his head. He couldn’t take his eyes off his father. 

It was dark when Walt’s wife and teenage daughter returned from their factory job. They dabbed cool water at the cuts and bruises on Pat’s arms and neck, and brought him a shot of whiskey to dull the pain.  Jack stood nearby, staring, playing with the coins in his pocket. 

His father wasn’t the invincible fairy tale giant he’d been when he and Ciara were tiny. 

“Jack, staring at him won’t make him any better.” The wife said.  “Come have something to eat.” 

Jack shook his head. “No thanks, ma’am.”  

She put her hands on her hips. “Wasn’t a request, lad.” She said. “Come fix ya self a plate. Nora, get him a chair, please.” 

Jack sat at the little table with these strangers, picking at tiny bites of chicken. He wasn’t hungry. His father, his legs dangling over the edge of the little couch, drifted in and out of restless sleep.  Jack tried to help clean up from dinner, then he sat back down next to his father. 

Walt’s wife and daughter gently wrapped Pat’s shoulder. One of them held him up by his uninjured left side while the other tied his arm across his chest. Bruises spread across his ribs and back, purple and black and yellow and some the size of dinner plates. Jack wanted to look away, but instead he stared until his eyes hurt. 

“He’s broken somethin’ for sure.”  The wife said. She propped a pillow under Pat’s arm. “I just ain’t sure how much more I know how to do for him.” 

“But...he’s gonna be okay, right?” Jack asked. He felt like a little kid, and he hated it. 

Nora, the daughter only a few years older than him, smiled softly and started to say something. But her mother shook her head. “I can’t lie to ya, kid.” She said. “I dunno. I hope so, but I don’t know.”  

Jack nodded. He insisted he wouldn’t sleep. He sat straight up in his chair, watching his dad’s every breath. Nora brought him a blanket and turned out the lamp in the kitchen.  He didn’t dare fall asleep. 

Jack and Pat both fell in and out of sleep throughout the night and into the next morning. Walt and his family couldn’t afford to miss a day’s work, but they left food for Jack and a note how to find a doctor or a cab if they needed anything. 

It was mid-morning by time Jack pulled himself from his hard chair. He’d slept sitting straight up, and everything was stiff.  He folded the blanket, laid it on the chair, and wandered to the window by the door. It was grey and humid, storming on and off.  Pat was still sleeping. His injured arm sat at an awkward angle across his chest, and his face was very pale. Jack gently touched his father’s uninjured hand. Should he try to wake him? Offer him water or something to eat? 

He paced aimlessly around this foreign house.  A couple hours crawled by. His dad still wasn’t waking up.  Jack sat down cross-legged on the floor, feeling hot and restless, and watched Pat’s chest rise and fall.  What should he do? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only know how to write sadness, I'm sorry. I LOVE reading and replying to all of your comments <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Fall 1893**

Officially, Pat Kelly died of a head injury.  But even as a kid Jack knew that the fall was just the breaking point.  

Maybe it was a lifetime of _never quite enough_ that killed him. Maybe it was the 10- and 12-hour days since he was a teenager, hauling brick, steel, and stone in the cold and the sun.  Jack remembered their father always smelling of smoke and sweat and fatigue--maybe that’s what killed him.

Pat died because the building was always more important than the builders, or maybe because his paycheck as a father of three hadn’t budged a cent since he was a 19-year-old bachelor.  

For years to come, Jack would say the stinkin’ streets of New York killed his dad because he couldn’t make himself remember how his father had been sucked dry by grief.  Thin, quiet, staring off into space. Pat stopped living three and a half years before he died.

 

Jack was a pinball for a couple of weeks. His parents’ old friends didn’t have room for another mouth to feed, but several of them took him in anyways.  Two nights here, three nights there, maybe a week on someone else’s couch.

Walt walked with him to pick up his father’s last paycheck. Jack stood in line, tiny and squished between the stinky bodies of a dozen construction workers.  He was shaking when he got to the counter.

The manager had his glasses on a gold chain, Jack thought probably just to show off his money. He held a stack of checks in one hand and a pen in the other, and glared impatiently at Jack. “Who da hell are you, boy?”

“I--I--I’m picking up a check for my father.” He said. He swallowed hard. “Patrick Kelly.”

The man flipped through his stack quickly. “Nope.” he said.

“What?”

Walt put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Pat fell on a job site about two weeks ago and _died_ from his injuries, sir. Least ya can do is give his child what he’s earned.”  Several other workers chimed in their agreement.

“Fell off of _your_ damn building!”

“Pat was here for years, sir!”

“He don’t even know who we are!”

“He’s a just a kid!”

“That’s Pat’s kid!”

The little office was hot and tense, and Jack wanted to disappear. He wanted his money. No, he wanted his dad.

“Shut up!” the manager shouted. He flipped through his pile of checks again. “I got checks for the rest of ya, but I ain’t got nothing for a Pat Kelly.” He looked down at Jack. “Sorry, kid, nothing I can do.”

Jack managed to get outside before he let the tears fall.  He cried the whole slow, quiet walk back to their empty apartment.

Neighbors helped him pack up. He gave away his grandmother’s dishes from Ireland, sold his father’s clothes, dropped and broke a dog figurine his mother had loved.  

Jack kept what he could carry: Drawing paper and pencils, his marble collection, and a blanket that he and Ciara had laid on as babies.  As he packed his clothes, he realized most of his pants had become too short since the spring. He moved out before he was evicted.

.

“Hey, Jackie!” Tommy called as Jack trudged up to the distribution center. “Where ya been?”

“Good to see ya.” Race said. He threw an arm around Jack’s shoulder.

“Y’all are cheery too dang early.” Tugboat said. “Hey, Jack.”  He nodded.

Jack forced a smile. Everything he owned was in a leather backpack on his back. “Hey, fellas.”  He didn’t realize he’d be missed.

They lined up at the distribution center to buy their papes for the day, and the nuns brought them lukewarm coffee.  They all sat shoulder to shoulder on the curb folding their papers, then split up. Race and Jack walked together to catch the businessmen rushing around Grand Central Station before Spot’s newsies could get there.  They tipped well, usually, and it was the best place to people watch.

Jack whipped out a pape and read the headline. “Clean up continues for Hog Island and Midtown!”

Race groaned. “We knows!” He said.  It was the end of hurricane season, and the headlines had been the same for weeks: how deep the water was, how many trees uprooted, how many killed. The hype was over as the East Coast slowly recovered from a hard summer. “Folks just wanna know if theys feet gonna get wet when they goin’ to work.”

“Well, get creative.” Jack said.

“Lady used her front door as a boat, paddled to safety down Fifth Street!”

Jack smiled and nodded. “Man rescued six cows from high water, stood on a roof for hours!”

Race waved a pape. “A boy built an ark, but no one got on!”  He shouted. That one made Jack crack up. A couple people handed the boys coins for papes.

A woman walked by, wearing red lipstick and a grey trench coat so long it almost trailed the floor. “Think she a spy?” Race said.

“Sure.” Jack said. “Working with the rats under the streets to take down the folks in skyscrapers who ain’t giving us a raise.”

“Rats?” Race raised an eyebrow at him.  

“Who else gonna help us?” Jack said. He pointed at a young man across the street playing the accordion for a small crowd. “How about him? What’s his story?”

Race looked. He closed his eyes, turned his head, and cupped a hand to his ear, as if he could even begin to hear the music over the roar of the city.  “Aw, he’s gonna be a star.” he said. He nodded slowly, like the music was really moving him. “Yeah, he’s a big shot for sure. Get him on the radio.”

Jack smiled. It felt foreign, like he had to teach every muscle how to be happy again. But, man, it felt so good to stand there in the crowd, making up nonsense with his buddy.

.

 **That night was his first in the lodgehouse**. He and Race sold out, then took the long way home.  Jack still carried his heavy leather backpack. At least a more permanent home would give him a place to keep his stuff.  

As it got dark,  Jack followed Tommy, Race, and a couple others to a tall wooden building with a long fire escape ladder scaling around the side. Jack took a long look at it.

“Is it, uh, leaning a little bit?” he said. He could’ve sworn the right window was higher than the left.

“Yeah, don’t think too hard about it.” One of the older boys said.

The front door opened to a living space with a heater, a square wooden table, and mismatched chairs--two brick red, two light oak, and one with a faded cushion on the seat.  Tugboat, who was behind them, slumped into one of the red ones.

Jack followed Tommy and Race up a narrow set of stairs. Two rooms were filled with rows and rows of identical bunk beds with metal frames, thin mattresses, and faded sheets. The two bedrooms were separated by an open community washroom with a couple showers and sinks.

“Broke a guy’s arm to get ya a spot next to Race.” Tommy said.

“Thanks.” Jack said. He put his bag down on his new bed and looked around. The door open and shut downstairs as the boys began returning from their day.

“Hey, ya ever play poker?” Race asked. Jack shook his head. “C’mon, we’ll teach ya. We plays for money for real, but we can start out with pebbles.”

“I’ll go easy on ya, just once, since ya a beginner.” Tommy said. “It’s warmer downstairs.”

The boys filled their little living room with laughter and chatter, stretching their tired bodies on the floor and lounging in the chairs. Finch sat on the floor and scratched at a spot on his leg. “Got stung by a damn bee today.” He muttered.

“Ya ever met a bee that makes milk?” One of the older boys asked as he lit a cigar.

“What?” Finch said. He pulled his sock up over the sting.

“A boo-bee!!” Two of the boys howled in unison, and they all laughed.  Race dealt Jack a handful of cards. Maybe they’d be okay here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's at the newsies lodge now, and laughing at lame boob jokes like 11-year-old boys do, but he's not a leader yet...  
> Check out my other newsies fics too, if you haven't :) (that sounds like a Youtuber chirping "don't forget to subscribe!" and I'm sorry lol) 
> 
> <3 Em


	8. Chapter 8

**October 1896**

Another clap of thunder almost shook the lodge house, but Jack was half asleep until a little head popped over the side of the bunk above him.

“Jack?” JoJo’s hair stuck up as he dangled upside down. “How long’s this gonna last? The storm. How much longer?”

“Dunno, bud.” Jack said. “But we’s alright.” He flipped his pillow over and closed his eyes again.

It was the first cold day of fall, a horrible, wet day to be out selling papes, and no matter how much they shouted themselves hoarse, the boys couldn’t improve the boring headlines. They’d almost all lost money; they barely scraped enough together a nickel each for everyone's room and board at the lodge. There hadn’t been enough for dinner. Now they all laid in their bunks, listening to the rain, hungry and disappointed.

“Jack?” JoJo said again. He and Buttons, another new boy, were both only eight.

“What?” Jack didn’t open his eyes.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Me neither.” Race said a few bunks down.

“I ain’t asleep.” Tommy sat up in his bed.

“Me neither.”

“Can we get some light?”

Jack sat up, too, and 11-year-old Specs lit a lamp and brought it to the middle of the long bedroom. Everyone else followed him, dragging their blankets around their shoulders, and they spread out on the floor and across beds. Jack scooted to the edge of his bed and stretched his long legs into the center of the circle. Crutchie sat on one side of him, Buttons on the other.

“Well, fellas,” Tommy said. “Today was shit.”

“Here here.” Albert, who was laying on the floor, half-heartedly lifted his fist.

The whole metal bed frame rattled as Jojo flopped onto his stomach above them, and Crutchie winced. “Careful, kid.” Jack said.

Tommy kept complaining. “It’s gonna be a rough winter. Just ya wait,” he looked towards the newer boys. “Selling papes in the cold is damn miserable.”

“Some rich old geezer called me a street rat today.” Specs said. “And I dropped a nickel into the gutter--a whole nickel!”

Finch, sitting with Tommy on the bunk across from Jack’s, rubbed his neck. “My throat’s kinda sore.” He said, frowning. Tommy inched away from him.

A flash of lightning snapped outside, and Buttons buried his head into Jack’s shoulder. Jack put his arm around him, and looked over the kid’s head to watch the rain beat against the window, tuning out the others’ pity party.

When they didn’t have to be out in it, Jack loved storms: they were powerful and wild, the rain steady and soothing. When he was little, his dad had taught him to count between the lightning and the thunder to know how close the storm was. He waited until the window reflected another brilliant flash, then counted in his head: _one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand, four-one-thousand_ \--thunder roared low. Four miles away. Or was it five seconds to the mile?

He felt the bed shift next to him and looked over his shoulder. Crutchie was rubbing his bad leg.

“Alright?” Jack whispered.

Crutchie nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “The bad weather just makes me stiff.”

It was apparently Race’s turn to complain over the whistling wind. “So then I ‘bout got hit by a cart because the driver ain’t paying a lick of attention. And my feets still wet. Is y’all feets still wet?” Everyone else nodded.

Jack yawned, then looked around the group. “Fellas, did we really all get out of bed just to bellyache about the day?” His brothers looked at him blankly. “If we just gonna whine and fuss like babies, we might as well try to get some sleep.”

“Dangit, we just blowin’ off some steam.” Race said, and a couple boys agreed.

Jojo’s head popped over the side again. “Jack, willya tell us a story? Like ya did when I couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah, Jack,” Crutchie said. “Tell us a story.” The other boys nodded.

Jack folded his feet underneath him and thought for a second. “How y’all feel about a scary story?” He asked with a smile.

Jojo scampered down from his bunk to see, Race pulled a pillow into his lap, and Albert reached for the lamp to turn the flame down.

“It’s already dark and stormy.” Buttons said.

“But look at them shadows.” Specs said.

“It was a night like this.” Jack said, and everyone leaned forward just a little. “It was a night like this. It was a long, dark night. Ya all alone. Not one soul around. And during that long, dark night, ya find a long, dark road. And as ya walk through the woods, ya find a long, dark path.” His finger became the person on the trail, drifting slowly towards the storm at the window.

“At the end of the long, dark path, is a lonely house, all fallin’ apart and boarded up. At the lonely house, there’s a lonely door that creeeeaks.” He pushed his hand forward like he was pushing open a door. “In that lonely, dark house, there’s a long, dark hall. In that long, dark hall are some long dark, stairs. At the top of that long, dark stairs is a big, dark balcony. At the end of the long, dark balcony, there’s a big, dark room. And ya say ‘hello’ and it echoes. Hello? Hello? Hello?”

“Hello? Hello?” Specs echoed. Jack looked around. Everyone’s eyes were wide in the shadowy lamp light.

“In the big, dark room, there’s another big, dark door. Creeaak!” he mimed opening a door again.

“Behind the big, dark door is a big, dark closet. Inside the big, dark closet are some steep little stairs. Up them steep little stairs is a big, dusty attic. Inside the big dusty attic is a big, dark chest.” he paused. Another crack of lightning flashed--perfect.

“Ya open the big, dark chest. Inside the big, dark chest is a small dusty box. Ya holding it. It fits in ya hand and it ain’t heavy. Ya all alone. And in that little dusty box, in the big dark chest, in the big ole attic, up some little steep stairs, in a big dark room, in a lonely old house at the end of a long, dark road on a god-awful night ya find...a pink jellybean!”

The little boys laughed and the big boys groaned.

“That ain’t scary!” Tommy said. “Ya was supposed to tell us a ghost story.”

“Something with some blood and guts, buddy.” Race said.

“Y’all fell for it, didn’t ya?” Jack said. “I seen ya all on the edges of ya seats.” Specs stood up and draped his blanket around his neck like a scarf.

“I liked it.” Buttons said, finally prying himself away from Jack’s arm.

“Me too.” Crutchie said.

“Whatever.” Finch said. “Let’s hit the hay.”

“Gotta do it all again in the morning.” Mush said.

They went back to their beds. Jack watched Crutchie stand up, slowly, gripping the bunk with one hand and his crutch with the other, and go slowly back to his bed. The kid was too stubborn to say he needed help.

Jack flipped onto his stomach and made a pillow with his arms, facing the window to watch the storm die down. And think. Thinking always happened at night.

When had he become the oldest? Technically, Mush was a couple months older, but Jack always like the oldest. In the last year or two, all of the big boys who’d taken him in and shown him the ropes after his dad died had gotten married or taken factory jobs. Tugboat had gone out West to chase...well, Jack didn’t know what he was chasing but, God, he hoped he’d found it. It felt like one day over the summer, he’d looked around and realized suddenly that he and his friends were the big boys. His Tugboat.

Everyone else was asleep, he was pretty sure. In the distance, a clock chimed 11. He really needed to sleep. Jack pulled his blanket over him and tried to ignore the ache deep in his stomach, pestering him again now that the distraction of the story was gone. Maybe they’d have enough for food tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff, and a flash-forward at Jack's growth as a leader. The how Jack and Crutchie met part is coming, but would y'all be interested in a memory/scene of Tugboat leaving? 
> 
> I'll also be updating The Girl in Yellow, hopefully soon, but I work all weekend and then I'm starting my first real job this week so we'll see what happens. Thanks for reading, friends! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**November 1896**

Jack and Buttons stood together on a corner as people pushed past them, eager to get home from work. 

“Get ya papes!” Buttons called.  He stood on a step to try to get attention in the crowd. “President-Elect McKinley’s first speech right here! Inauguration plans!” 

Jack rubbed his hands together to try to warm them. At least there was some sunshine. “They alls read the speech already, kid.” Jack said. “It’s almost old news now. The ones that are gonna bother read it first thing in the morning paper.” 

“Did you read it?” Buttons asked. 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Hell no.”  Another crowd of people pushed past them. “But, hey, ya said inauguration right.” The two of them had worked on that pronunciation half the morning.  

Buttons jumped down from the step and pulled at Jack’s coat pocket to count their coins. “Think we got enough for dinner tonight?” 

Jack felt the coins in his pocket and did the math in his head. “Not with rent at the lodge going up.” he said. Each of the boys now paid 15 cents a week instead of 10, and they were all feeling it. 

“Please, Jack,” The nine-year-old said. “I’m so hungry.” 

Jack sighed. He was hungry too, an empty, gnawing feeling that would just get worse before it got better. The meals they got from the church were better than nothing, but they weren’t enough. None of the boys had eaten since early yesterday, and the world was starting to feel fuzzy and foggy. “I know, kid.” Jack said. He handed him another paper. “Here, make something up. I’ll be right back.” 

There were several shops across the street. Maybe someone would be willing to make him a deal since it was the end of the day.  Jack dodged carriages and carts on the way to bakery. 

The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow at Jack as soon as he opened the door. “Can I help ya, son?” he said.  

The warm air and smells of fresh bread felt like a welcome hug, but he was afraid to get too comfortable. “Um, you closing soon, ain’t ya, sir?” Jack said. He shuffled his feet. 

“‘Bout 10 minutes.” 

“You, um, you don’t have anything you can get me a deal on, do ya?” 

The man shook his head and gestured to the almost-empty display case. “Sorry, kid.” He said. 

“Or anything you was gonna get rid of? Really, anything. I don’t got much, but I’m honest, sir. I’m willing to pay.” he reached inside his coat pocket and counted his coins again. He had seventeen cents and unless Buttons sold them out by some miracle, he was losing money on those papes. It was Friday. His room and board was due tonight. 

The baker shrugged. “Not getting rid of a thing. Just about sold out today, and what I’ve got left is for my family and I tonight.” He smiled warmly at Jack. “But come back first thing tomorrow, we’ll have plenty of anything ya want.” 

Jack nodded. The baker locked the cash drawer and returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. 

There was a display of sugar cookies on top of the counter: five perfect circles on a tray, and a sign next to them saying they were a nickel each. Jack’s stomach grumbled just looking at them.  He reached up, grabbed three, and shoved them into his coat pocket. 

Every muscle tightened. Had he really just done that? He glanced over his shoulder, then got on his toes to peek through the little doorway into the kitchen. He didn’t see the baker.  

Jack turned, threw the door open, and sprinted down the block back to where Buttons waited. 

“Where’d you go?” Buttons said. “I sold one more pape.” He proudly held up a coin. 

Jack put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Went to try to get us something to eat.” 

Buttons’ face lit up. “What’d ya get?” 

Jack pulled one of the cookies from his pocket and Buttons snatched it from him. “I stole it.” Jack said. He licked his lips. “Shit...I can’t believe I did that.” 

The younger boy’s mouth fell open. “You stole these?” He whispered, and he looked down at the already-half-eaten cookie in his hand. 

The other two cookies felt like lead weights in his pocket. Across the street, he saw the baker come out of his shop and lock the door. Jack ducked his head, staring at his too-small shoes, even though he was half a block away. 

“What are ya doing?” Buttons stood on the steps of the building again, trying to make eye contact with Jack. “Can I have another cookie?” 

“Shh!” Jack said. “The baker’s gonna see us.” 

“No, he won’t, stupid.” Buttons said. “He probably don’t even know it was you.” 

Jack looked up. The baker was walking in the other direction, fading into the crowd, so Jack straightened up. “He was nice to me.” He shook his head. 

“So?” Buttons said. “We need it. We’re hungrier than he is.” 

God, he was so hungry. The sun was just starting to set, and it was going to drop below freezing soon. They had three papes left. And two more of those dang cookies in Jack’s pocket. 

“Can’t argue with ya stomach, right?” Jack said. He handed Buttons another cookie. 

“Right.” Buttons said. 

Jack took a bite. It tasted like butter and shame. 

.

That night, as they laid in their bunks, Jack fessed up to Race. 

Race laughed. “Welcome to the club.” he said. “Wanna know how much shit I’ve nabbed in the last couple months? You thinks I got the cash to get any of us smokes? Think Tugboat or Kid Blink or any of the guys ‘round here when we was little never had to steal when times got rough?” 

“Yeah.” Jack said. “Guess you right.” 

“Don’t beat ya self up, Jackie.” Race said. Jack didn’t know when they’d started calling him Jackie. He rolled over and tried to sleep. 

The baker’s face, the baker’s money didn’t matter anymore. Buttons was right, they needed it more.  _ Doin’ what I gotta do for the guys...for the little ones.  _ He told himself. 

.

A couple days later, Jack tipped an apple into his bag as he walked past the market, nestling it in between newspapers as he kept walking.  He could’ve sworn everyone was staring at him as he hustled up the block. He kept his eyes forward. 

Then he did it again on the other side of town, grabbing another two to share with the boys. 

Stealing was getting easier already. Whenever that made Jack feel gross inside, he pictured the relief on his brothers’ faces when he brought them something, thought of how he finally felt full enough to function, thought of how winter--and the coughs that shook the lodge every Christmas--was approaching fast.  _ We need it more.  _

 

The circulation in Crutchie’s right leg was awful. The rainbow of colors his twisted, atrophied foot turned--red when he was hot or standing too long, purple or blue if it was cold, sometimes ghostly white--was just another effect of the polio that’d almost killed him when he was eight.

 Jack and Albert had been the ones who found him a year and a half ago, leaning in the alley behind the bank. He was begging for change and hiding from Morris Delancey, who’d given him a black eye just for fun.   Crutchie was almost nine, but the size of a six-year-old. His feet were red then, and all scraped up because he didn’t have shoes. 

“Come stay at the lodge with us.” Jack immediately offered. He helped him to his feet and drug him back to the lodge. The older boys--this was right before Tugboat got on a train--somehow found him a crutch, and a newsies cap, and from then he was family. 

 

As November crept on and the first snow flurries started to fall, Crutchie’s bad leg was stiff, sore, and rainbow more often than not. 

“Wish I could get me some good socks.” Crutchie would say every night as he massaged his foot. 

All the kid wanted was a pair of socks that weren’t patchy, worn hand-me-downs. He just wanted to keep his feet warm. Jack thought he could handle that. 

There was a clothing store near the lodge where a pair of pants cost more than Jack made in a month.  There was a rack of socks in a corner. They were nicer than anything Jack had seen in a long time: thick and soft, knit by a machine with perfectly uniform stitches. No one was around. He slipped a navy pair into the very inside pocket of his jacket, then pretended to look at some buttons. 

“Thanks, mister.” Jack called over his shoulder as he left. 

Crutchie would be thrilled. 

Jack stepped around a couple people as he walked up the block, fast, but not fast enough to be suspicious. 

“Hey!” he heard someone shout behind him. “Hey, you! Kid in the hat! Stop right there!” 

Jack walked a little faster and glanced around to see if he could cross the street. A carriage sped in front of him. 

A policeman’s whistle shrieked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adulting/job hunting is hard and awful and I love books and scrappy orphans the end


End file.
